Sunday, July 31, 2011

Agent Orange

Last Sunday, we talked with some veterans at the People's Committee, which is the local government. The vets focused on the fact that the war is in the past, but the threat of unexploded landmines and the effects of chemical warfare in the form of Agent Orange are still present. They requested that we educate others about the dangers of chemical warfare, protest against companies manufacturing similar toxins, start funds to help those suffering from them, and devote our scientific studies to finding cures.

I did not make it to the room in the War Remnants Museum in Ho Chi Minh City with photos of people suffering from the poison, but apparently there is picture after picture of people with odd deformities. I have noticed more people here in Vietnam using wheelchair-bike devices, with crossed or blind eyes, or with random growths on their faces than I notice at home, but I do not know whether or not they are birth defects caused by Agent Orange.

The man in charge of the Veteran Union, who was only about 10 years old during the war, was refreshingly kind and forgiving towards Americans. He repeatedly acknowledged that not all Americans are violent and that the War Remnants Museum tells only a scewed, evil side of the story, without examining all aspects of the war. His consideration in making this distinction went a long way with me, especially after having observed firsthand the biased nature of the museum.

Most Vietnamese people show zero bias towards us. In fact, there is American flag and "USA" merchandise everywhere you look. I think I was anticipating a bias because when Americans think of Vietnam, they think only of the Vietnam War. However, for the Vietnamese, the American War was just a small part of their long history of war. More recently than the United States, this country has been at war with Cambodia and China, and just before us, they faced France and China as well. They certainly do not seem to share the same impressions of us that we naively have of them after 40 years.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Dear Dad

Things Dad would not like:
Riding our bikes in the rain. "Put your bike back in the garage. It'll rust if it rains!"
Bare feet at the construction site. "Put some steel-toed boots on when you're in the kitchen. A knife might drop."

Things Dad might like:
On Saturday, our planned excursion was a trip to the soccer field to play the administrators and kids from the local Youth Union. In the second half, my shin collided with one of the boys, and after I had been playing for a few minutes, I looked down and saw the nastiest bump on my shin. I completely freaked and ran off the field. Hoang Anh compared it to a guava at first, a second knee once the swelling had gone down, a mountain later that day, and a hill the next day. She kindly wished that it wouldn't become a valley the day after. If Dad were there, he would have fixed it first and then laughed at me for getting so upset. It was hardly hurting, but every time I looked down and saw that lump, I started hyperventilating again. Not my best.

Our Thursday night dinner conversation revolved partly around the fact that my dad is the only follower on all my friends' blogs. They like your picture, by the way. One of them also thought you were from Alaska.

Situation normal

Friday morning, on my way to work, I saw a man sanding the feathers off a live chicken. I was already feeling nautious from taking my malaria meds on an empty stomach, and that did not help.

Our ride to work is really different here. We turn right out of our hotel onto the National Highway, the Vietnamese equivalent of I-95. Where we are, it's a 2-lane road with a dotted white line and fruit stands every 10 meters that people park on the side of the road for. There are cows grazing on the sides, and chickens running around. Endless palm trees line both sides and creeks flow through them, separating the houses from the road. Once we get closer to town, the traffic is terrifying. Pedestrians yield to bikes, bikes yield to motorbikes, and trucks do whatever they want. Logan almost ran into a man with one leg crutching along the side of the highway. Almost all of us have had some kind of small biking mishap already.

After the market, we cross two arched bridges, just big enough for boats laden with coconuts to pass under. After a few kilometers, we turn onto a palm tree-lined sidewalk with creeks on both sides. We ride over two more bridges--sidewalk-sized with no railings. It stinks when motorbikes decide to pass me on these sidewalk-bridges, especially motorbikes like the one today, which had three people on it (which is technically illegal).

Then we turn left onto an even smaller sidewalk and cross two more bridges. It stinks even more when motorbikes try to pass on those. The final part of the bike ride is the hanging bridge. This morning there were two dogs in my way. I was pretty sure I was going to kill them or go over the edge, but somehow we're all still alive. After that bridge, we park our bikes and start walking over monkey bridges. They're made of anything that's available and allow us to traverse the water network by foot. The first one we cross is a bundle of bamboo trunks, then lots of wooden branches, then mud, then a coconut tree trunk, then a concrete beam, then one reinforced with wooden planks, just for us, and Yay! We're there.

Though our daily commute is unnerving from a self-preservation standpoint, there are a lot of quality sights along the way. I see one or two huge blue and black butterflies almost daily. We are passed by men in neon orange jumpsuits who are apparently engineers on their way to work. I feel a kind of kinship with them--our fellow inmates. There is a row of casket stores, all open-air, of course. The other day I saw a little girl chatting with an old man on a bench  in front of the displayed coffins. Then my personal favorite is a pair of statues. There is a T-Rex tethered to an umbrella pole, claws outstretched. In front of him is a slightly shorter Buddha statue on her shrine, oblivious to the fact that Barney is about to take her out.

Last Wednesday was our first day playing soccer with the teachers and construction workers from the elementary school where we teach. Backing up a bit, people here drink wine and beer like we drink coffee. They start early--like 6 a.m. early. They also sometimes take an afternoon wine break, instead of tea. The first day we played soccer with them, the computer teacher interrupted Logan and I during class and asked us to come over and chat with him and the principle. The principle was feeling a bit woozy, though, so we just went into the office with Tri, Alyce's assistant, and had the most scatter-brained chat you could imagine. One second we were talking about the location of the soccer stadium, and the next, he was asking how to say 'spring roll' in English. The game ended with a kid spraining his arm and the computer teacher puking on the sidelines. He played better the next day.

A whole new world

Bến Tre is in the Mekong River Delta, so there is water everywhere. It also means that it has a rainy season and a dry season. This is the rainy season. Every single day, it rains at least once. Usually it comes in the form of a freak downpour for about 20 minutes, and then it clears up.


On our first day here, we experienced the rainstorms, and also the traffic accidents. I came within inches of two motorbike accidents in the first two days. Nobody died, and I'm 86% sure they weren't my fault. We also experienced the rumored hospitality immediately. We were forced to eat 4 meals on the first day because everybody wanted to feed us, and we weren't allowed to say 'no' without offending people. We ate breakfast at 9, lunch at 12, first dinner at 3, and second dinner at 8. We went to the market as a group that night, and some guy started taking tons of pictures of and with us. He apparently works for the government in some capacity, but he just looked like a shop owner. Supposedly these pictures will one day end up on the town's website, MoCay.org, but considering how quickly things work around here, they will probably take months to be approved.


On our first Sunday, we visited the work site. The family's house is far from being bike-accessible. They live in between a number of streams, and their current house is very small and quite unstable. It has just one room, a low roof, and is made entirely out of woven palm leaves. Both of the parents have mental handicaps, but in this country, mental illnesses are usually seen as a personal problem, perhaps a spiritual one, and therefore there are no attempts to diagnose or treat them. Mr. Minh is the father. He never speaks to us or makes eye contact, but he works very hard with us. He is quite strong. His wife acts similarly, though in the past few days we've caught her smiling a couple times. Their son is 15 years old, but physically he looks about 8. He spent a few years in 3rd grade, and finally stopped going because he could not progress past that level. His name is Kha, and he is really cute. He is surprisingly strong and helps us carry heavy loads of materials. We heard he was a really good fisher, which is true, but the fish that he catches are these little tiny mudskippers, only a couple inches long. Unfortunately, this talent can't help earn money for the family, because anyone can catch these fish, and they provide hardly any meat. Only families with no money eat these minuscule fish. Before we left, Kha climbed a huge coconut tree, dropped down some coconuts, and fed them to us. Delicious.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

May increase morbidity and mortality.

Before we went to Quảng Trị, Alyce (our program leader) warned us about bodies in the water, land mines in the jungle, hidden police in the streets, mosquitoes in the fields, cockroaches in the shower, and snakes in the food. As it turns out, most of those things are true, but none of them threatened us. Hundreds of people died in the river during the Vietnam War, remaining landmines are a minor threat, Juan-Pablo met an "English teacher" who turned out to be a policeman, mosquitoes occasionally feasted on our uncovered legs, cockroaches definitely made appearances in our bathrooms, and some people eat snakes ("Snake is good!" exclaims May upon reading this).


--Side note--
The lady who cooks lunch for us (aka The Lunch Lady) has a python in a cage in her backyard. Two days ago, there was a live chicken in the cage. Yesterday, there was a dead chicken and a dead rat in the cage. Today, there was just a python.
--            --


The first night with our new roommates in HCMC, Khai (Joey's roommate, from the Mekong Delta, 2nd year student at Foreign Trade University--FTU--in HCMC) asked us if we wanted to go to a coffee shop where he was meeting some friends from California. We all went and ended up at this sick coffee shop outside of downtown Saigon in a room chock full of FTU students and American college students who were apparently creating an English club. The power went off when we got there, so we lit candles all along the table, and I discussed morals with Kathy, 2 of our roommates, a Vietnamese-American graduate of George Mason University, a Vietnamese housewife, and a random FTU student.


They explained to me the importance of kids obeying their parents. I told them about the great variability in parenting styles and the tendency to encourage independence and self-sufficiency. Neither method seems necessarily superior. People in America and Vietnam are very happy. They grow up, function normally, and contribute to society in some way. It made me think of a talk I had with May (my new roommate, born in the South to avoid the 2 child per family law, raised near Hà Nội, moved to HCMC at age 5, 3rd year econ major at FTU, favorite month: May) earlier that day. I made fun of her for not wanting to hurt people's eyes by leaving a scab uncovered, and then again for not wanting to torture others by singing karaoke. I told her she should have more confidence and do what she wants to do instead of worrying about others, but she said she cares what others think. In the States, that would be considered a bad thing 95% of the time, but here, it seems to be a matter of being considerate. In a society that is hesitant to voice personal opinions out of consideration for the group on the whole, it is more important for individuals to be in tune with what others are thinking and feeling. May said, "Well, if I care about them, why shouldn't I care what they think?" It makes a lot of sense, if you think about it.


On our last day in HCMC, we found The Market. We'd been looking for a local market with local prices, not tourist prices, and Tri finally brought us to this heavenly place. Unfortunately, my feet are too big for Vietnamese sizes. They have the cutest flats here. Only $2.50 a pair. The coolest thing I saw there were huge vats of coagulated duck blood. It's light purple and the consistency of smooth guacamole. My first thought was that is was some kind of mashed eggplant. Guess again.


Last Saturday, we came to beautiful Bến Tre. The accommodations are super nice compared to what else we've had, despite the live spiders (now frozen) in the refrigerator.


When we went to Bến Tre, Alyce gave us a similar warning shpiel to that of Quảng Trị. We have to wear bright orange shirts at all times, in case people don't notice that we're white. We look like inmates. They had the same arrangement last year, and one night the police came at 4 in the morning to check and see if all the students were really sleeping at their hotel. When we asked Alyce why they had done it, she said, "Maybe they heard a rumor that you guys escaped." ....Escaped what, exactly? Basically the local government just likes to know where we are at all times. They plan our weekend activities for us and sometimes follow us home from work. Alyce also informed us that the province is famous for being a Communist hot spot. Finally, she told us we'd have our commute along the biggest highway in Việt Nam. Her words: "I really recommend you wear your helmets, because once you get hit by a truck, it becomes kind of dangerous."


One of the things that is threatening us here are the mosquitoes. We are covered in bites from them and no-see-ums. Our malaria meds are also killing us, though. All the students who are still on them are getting stomachaches, so the other day we spent about an hour trying to diagnose Kathy's symptoms on Mayo Clinic and good old wikipedia. We discovered that the medications a Vietnamese doctor gave her "may increase morbidity and mortality" if she didn't have bronchitis, which she didn't. I'm not sure whether that's more or less helpful than the last time Kathy called International SOS and ended up chatting with an old woman in Singapore about her toes.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Sorry for being a bad blogger.

Hi! I am still alive! I am now back in Ho Chi Minh City after 23 days in Quang Tri, in central Vietnam. The 17th parallel, the dividing line between North and South Vietnam during the war, actually goes right through the province. Now the only foreigners who visit are war vets, but those are few and far between. Quang Tri was also the site of an 81-day-long bombing known as the 2nd Battle of Quang Tri. During those months, every living resident of the area is estimated to have sustained many thousands of pounds worth of bombs. The Army of the Republic of Vietnam (South Vietnam, supported by the US) used 80,000 tons of artillery. That's 1,000 tons per day for 3 months. My roommate's parents, for example, survived those days, though they were just little children at the time.

The signs of the war are present everywhere, but never overwhelming. Right on the main road of Quang Tri Town, where we stayed, there is a bombed out school. It cannot be rebuilt because it, like many other destroyed buildings in Vietnam, now belongs to the government and is considered a historic relic. We biked by this school everyday, and finally we went in it. Some of the stairs are still intact, though much of the floor, walls, and ceiling is not. We went upstairs and walked through holes in the walls from one classroom into another. You can still see the chalkboards on some of the walls, and on them, groups of students who used to attend the school have written notes. It is a sad but striking site. The school now houses a family in one of the downstairs classrooms. There also seems to be a plant shop of sorts that operates out of it. There are all kinds of beautiful bonsai trees and shrubs in pots covering the ground.

Further along on our bike ride to work, there is a bombed out concrete tower that looks like it may have been a watchtower many years ago. It is along the river, but it has been abandoned now, and nobody knows what its story was. On the other side of the river, there is a monument with drops of blood, honoring the people who lost their lives in the war.

About a block away from our guest house, in town, is a big pagoda-like structure, right along the river. It is primarily ceremonial, but inside of the temple, there is a shrine on one side to Ho Chi Minh, and on the other to the soldiers who died during the wars, both the French and American Wars, I think. Although Quang Tri is a small, unimportant province politically, there is a huge ceremony held there every year which attended by high-ranking government officials, Buddhist monks, war veterans, and other citizens. It happens on the plaza in front of the pagoda (the same place we watch the sun go down every night as we play soccer with the local boys). This year, a Buddhist temple sponsored an extra service a few days before the ceremony. Going back to the 81-day bombing, many Southern Vietnamese soldiers tried, those days, to swim across the river in front of the pagoda to protect the large citadel. Thousands of men died trying to cross this river, now referred to as the Blood River. During the ceremony, therefore, they light paper lanterns to wish for the men who died.

One night, we went to have coffee by the river and discovered that it was filled with these paper lanterns. It looked like there was a city in the river because of all the lights. There were thousands of them, filling the river for as far as we could see. They had been sending them out for 3 hours. Each lantern is a wish, and with all those lanterns, I thought there must be 10 wishes for each person who died in the river, but my Vietnamese friend Hien told me that, "No, many more people died here than the number of lanterns you see floating here."

We watched this fiery floating mass go gently down the river, gradually getting smaller as they floated downstream from their point of release at the pagoda. I wanted to know why these people were there, so Hien asked a man about the ceremony. He explained it and asked me, in Vietnamese, if I wanted to go inside the temple. He unlocked it for me and let us go inside to pray for the soldiers, in Buddhist fashion.

Hien then asked the people in one of the boats--classic, long wooden boats--if they might take us out there. Some people had released the lanterns from the middle or the far side of the river, so this "security" boat for the pagoda had been one of the ones ferrying people to the middle of the river. They let the 5 of us--Hien, Joey, Pablo, Katie, and me--get on the boat, and they used a pole to push along the bottom of the river, sending us out to the middle. They turned the engine on low and drove us into the middle of the lanterns, each one representing a dead soldier. We were in a sea of lantern wishes, sitting on bamboo mats, and as we looked back at the pagoda, we saw the moon rising orange over the palm trees on the far bank. It was one of my favorite nights in Vietnam.

One of the most interesting things I have seen, and I was confused by it at first, are these men I saw on my way to work every morning, wielding metal detectors and walking through mud and dirt where the road was being expanded. It seemed weird that this team of men could make a living off of finding shards of valuable metal in the ground. Finally I asked Phuong (my roommate) about it, and learned that they were not, as I had guessed, trying to pass time looking for stray coins, but were actually searching for unexploded land mines. Never expect to see that in the States.